Harry Potter: Beyoned Westeros
by The P.B.G
Summary: Magic has abandoned Westeros and fled to a new realm, taking with it the Stark family. In this new land of Britain they will have to adapt to the wizarding world, with all its wonders and dangers. For Winter is Coming.
1. Chapter 1: The Apperating Castle

**This is a non-profit fan fiction**

 **Harry Potter and Game of Thrones are owned by J.K Rowling and George R. Martin**

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 **Chapter 1**

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 **The Apperating Castle**

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There was not a man in all the North of Westeros that could not deny that Lord and Lady Stark where completely Honourable. They were the last people you'd expect to lie, or to be involved in anything strange, underhanded or mysterious, because they were just to respectable to be involved with such peculiar affairs.

Lord Eddard Stark was Warden of the North. He was in his mid-thirties with a long face, dark hair and grey eyes, though he did have a closely-trimmed beard that was beginning to grey. Lady Catelyn Stark was beautiful, with long auburn hair, rich blue eyes, and long fingers, which were very useful when performing Needle work. The Starks had had Five True-Born child, who were the most wonderful babes in all the land, and one child that Lady Stark never spoke of.

The Starks where content with their life ruling over the wild and open north, but Lord Stark had a secret, a secrete passed from father to son, a secrete no man could know. He didn't think he could bear life if anyone found out where the Starks had come from. Many stories from the Age of Heroes spoke of the Original Stark, Bran the Builder. But no whispers before that Age were ever spoken; in fact, Lord Stark pretended he didn't know anything before the Age of Heroes, because the origins of his family were as unrespectable as it was possible to be. Ned shivered at the thought of what the other kingdoms might say or do if they learned the truth. War, blood and death would soon fly across all of Westeros, and old alliances and friendships would be broken to see the end of his line.

When Lord and Lady Stark woke upon on a grey, boring summer day our story starts, there were a dozen or so clouds in the sky as was normal, there was no suggestion that anything strange or Mysterious would soon happen across the frozen land of The North. Lord Stark whistled calmly as he strapped his sword to his belt sitting down at the high table with his family, and lady Stark critised her two daughters Sansa and Arya for acting unladylike at the table.

None of them noticed a large, white owl flutter amongst the rafter of the Great hall. At finishing a lovely breakfast of kipper and sausage's, Lord Stark pushed his plate away, kissed Lady Stark on the cheek, and ruffled the hair of his children, but missed baby Rickon who had fallen off Lady Stark's knee, and sat of the floor grumpily.

"Little monster," chuckled Lord Stark as he left the Great Hall.

He walked to the stables and was met by Ser Rodrick. Climbed atop his horse and trotted out of Winterfell.

It was as he left through the Hunters Gate that he noticed the first sight of something strange – his brother Brandon was standing by the Portcullis. For a second Lord Stark didn't understand what he had seen— he pulled the reigns of his horse and jerked his head back to look again. But there was no one there. What had he been thinking, his brother was dead, wasn't he? It must have been a trick of the light. Lord Stark blinked and stared at the Portcullis. But there was nothing there. As Lord Stark rode away from Winterfell and down the road to Wintertown, he watched the castle carefully. It seemed ancient and old, a colossus of the landscape, then he heard a laugh, deep and booming an arrogant, his brothers laugh—no, not his brothers laugh, it was the wind, it had to be. Lord Stark gave himself a little shake and put his brother's face from his mind. As he rode with Ser Rodrick and several men towards town, he thought of nothing except doing his duty as the towns Leige Lord.

But on the edge of the black forests, duties were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat atop his horse and trotted down a muddy path, he couldn't help but noticing that there seemed to be shadows moving through the trees. Hungry shadows. Lord Stark disliked shadows— they were dark omens that spooks marched in. He kicked his horse lightly and moved fast through the forest, till he was in the open fields that lead to Wintertown and his eyes fell on a huddle of darkness from a passing cloud that lingered close by. The shadows were whispering, excited whispers. Lord Stark shook his head; the whispering soon disappeared, he thought it was all an illusion that, sleep still clouded his mind... yes, that would be it. The traffic to Wintertown was almost non-existent, and a few minutes later, Lord Stark arrived in Wintertown his mind back on performing his duty.

Lord Stark always started his day the same. He met with Magistrate of the town, if he hadn't, he might have found it very difficult to concentrate of doing his duty. He didn't see a rather large black dog roam through the streets of Wintertown, though people all around the town did, they pointed and gazed open-mouthed. Most people had seen a dog, but not one of this big, nor one whose fur smoked with a coughing mist and with vengeful red eyes. Lord Stark, however, had a perfectly normal, monster-free morning. He collected the monthly taxes from the various farms in the area. He spoke with several minor officials about the preparations for winter. He even had time to visit the orphanage. By the time lunch arrived he was in a good mood, when he thought that he'd stretch his legs, walk to the closest tavern, and buy himself a mug of beer with a plate of meat.

He'd forgotten all about his brother's face and the whispering shadows, until he sat down in the tavern, and a dark corner started murmuring. He eyed the corner angrily as he took a sip of his beer, ignoring it. He didn't know why, but he was sure there was something in the shadow, something that made him uneasy. Like before the whispering was excited, too, and he just as before couldn't seem what was making the sound. It was only when his plate of meat arrived, that he caught a few words of what the shadows were saying.

"The Starks, all dead, that's what will come to pass, Father shall tell him, tonight."

Lord Stark did not move. Fear flooded him. He looked into the shadowy corner expecting some child to walk out laughing, but no one did, he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it.

He didn't touch the meat the wench delivered. He left the tavern and hurried into the Magistrates office, snapping at the overweight man not to disturb him, and slammed the door, he thought of telling Ser Rodrick what he had heard, but changed his mind. He stroked his beard, thinking…no, he was being silly. Voices from shadows were impossible. He was sure he was just hearing thing, creaks of floorboards that sounded like words. As he thought about it, he wasn't even sure he had heard Stark. It was more of Ark sound he heard. There was no point in worrying Ser Rodrick or anyone else; Lord Stark always got upset when there was any hint of his ancestors oddity. He didn't blame his ancestor—if he'd been the same … but all the same, that whisper…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on performing his duties that afternoon and when the sun began to set as he left Wintertown, he was still so worried that he didn't watch were he rode and his horse tripped sending him flying into the ground.

"Shit," he grunted, as he hit the ground hard. It was a few seconds before Lord Stark realized that he was on the ground, his head hurting and his ears hearing a low murmur.

He thought he should have been upset at being knocked to the ground. But on the contrary, Lord Stark felt fine, but the voices in the shadows squeaked excitedly that made him stare at the shadow of a tree which morphed into his dead sister Lyanna, "Rejoice, rejoice, my dear Brother, for tonight is a glorious night! Hail to thee, hail to the house of Stark! For now our family's long journey upon this globe comes to an end, celebration galore, praise this night, this wonderful night!"

And then Lord Stark's sisters shadowy face smiled at him and disappeared. Lord Stark lay there stuck to the spot. He had seen two deceased siblings. He was perplexed by what his eyes had seen, whatever he had seen. He was rattled. He climbed off the ground and hurried to his horse and set off for Winterfell, hoping he was tired from the day and imagining thing, which he had never hoped before, because nothing like this had happened to him before.

As he rode through the Hunter gate of Winterfell, the first thing he saw— and it didn't improve his mood— was the Gargoyles that decorated that battlements where moving, staring at him whispering and laughing to each other. Ser Rodrick and none of the Guards seemed to notice. He was sure they were moving, they had to be.

"Stop it!" said Lord Stark loudly. The Gargoyles gave him a stern, wary look. Was that normal Gargoyle behaviour? Lord Stark wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he gave his horse to the stable boy, and walked into the castle. He was still determined not to mention anything to anyone.

Lady Stark had had a perfectly normal day. She told him over the evening feast all about Sansa's sowing lessons, and how little Rickon had managed to make it down the stairs of the great keep. Lord Stark tried to act normally. When the children had been put to bed, he went into his study in time for the weekly Raven Report from the other lords of the north.

The news was rather strange:

Lord Umber had reported seeing a great sea serpent in the bay of seals, and fish flying from the water onto the land in fear. Lord Karstark wrote informing Lord Stark that a herd of horses with the bodies of men had been seen riding near his strong hold. Lord Bolton whispered of ghosts of deceased men haunting the Dreadfort. And the Mormonts scribbled urgently a frost dragon flying over Bear Island.

The news from the south was not much better:

Prince Renly of the Stormlands informed him that the sea had grown vicious towards storms end destroying the royal fleet at habour. Lord Tyrell, reported trees coming to life and roaming the Reach, replanting the forests of old. While from the Vale, Trolls had been seen climbing the Mountain of the moon.

Lord Stark sat frozen in his chair. Tree's coming to life? Sea serpents, roaming the oceans? Old friends growing wings? And the whispering shadows, whispers from departed siblings.

Maester Luwin came into the study carrying his many chain links. It was no good. He'd have to say something to someone. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Maester Luwin— have you by chance… have you read the letters from the ravens?"

Maester Luwin looked shocked and angry. He gave a stiff nod.

"I have, my Lord," he said sharply, "Why?"

"Strange occurrences across Westeros," Lord Stark Mumbled, "Tree's…Dragons…Beasts long thought dead…"

"Your point, my lord?" snapped Maester Luwin.

"Well, it's just that… Maybe… it was something to do with…. You know… the Higher Mysteries."

Maester Luwin stood very still his lips pursed. Lord Stark Wondered whether he dared tell him he'd heard whispers from the shadows, and seen his dead siblings faces. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "You don't think there is anything to worry about. Just sailor stories…nothing more."

"Yes, my lord. Just sailor stories," said Maester Lyuwin stiffly.

"Are you sure, though?"

"Yes, my Lord. Perhaps The Higher Mysteries was once a mighty force in the world, but no longer. Nothing of that forgotten age remains, they are but wisp of smoke that lingers in the air after a great fire has burned out, and even that is fading. Valyria was the last ember, and Valyria is gone."

"Oh, yes," said Lord Stark, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject to anyone that night. Instead he went to his chamber and crept to the window. Lady Stark soon joined him as he peered into the courtyard below. A Knight in full burnt armour was standing there.

It was staring at the keep as though it were waiting for him.

He blinked once, was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the whispers from the shadows? If it did... if it got out that he and his family were descended from— well, he wouldn't let that happen.

All of Winterfell went to bed. Lady Stark fell asleep quickly but Lord Stark lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. But no comforting thought reach him. In fact, it was nearly midnight before he climbed out of bed and walked to the window, and peered out again. The knight was still there, still waiting for him. After a moment of hesitation, he ventured down to the courtyard.

All of Winterfell might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the Knight in the court yard was showing no sign of sleepiness. It stood as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the gate of the great keep. It didn't, so much as quiver when Lord Stark walked out and slammed the great door behind him.

Lord Stark stepped forward, walking through the courtyard as the summer snow ran across the ground. The knights' grip twitched on his sword, and its black eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this Knight had ever been seen in Winterfell. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with his face hidden beneath a thick helmet. He was also very burnt, judging from the black charcoal and ash that stained his armour, which was in great quantity that put a fireplace to shame, on the breast plate was an engraved animal: A Direwolf.

He turned, his armour groaning. He raised a long arm, ash cascading to the floor from twisted joints, and pointed to the Gods wood. This man, this knight, was Lord Starks deceased father, Rickard Stark.

Rickard Stark didn't seem to realize that he was dead. Instead he walked off creaking and groaning to the God's Wood. His last living son following very confused. For some reason, the sight of Lord Stark following him seemed to amuse Rickard. He chuckled, and muttered, "Should have known it would have been you. Not Brandon, not your brother."

He pushed the door to the Gods Wood open. It seemed very dark in the sacred forest, till Rickard drew his sword and it burst into a flaming light, he held it up in the air and lit the way. They walked unhindered to the Weirdwood tree. Rickard Stark plunged his sword into the ground as a beckon and walked to the pale tree, where he sat down on a low branch next to the wooden face of the old gods. He didn't look at Lord Stark, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Strange times these are, strange times," sighed Rickard. He reached up and removed his helmet.

Lord Stark gasped. His father's face was pink, blistered and smouldering from a great fire that had taken his life, he had no hair, and an eye was completely covered in ash. But there was no pain on his father's face. Instead Rickard was smiling through a set of broken teeth.

"F-F-Father, how have you been?" Lord Stark asked.

"My Dear son, I'm dead. I'm in a bit of pain here and there, but nothing to cry about."

"I'm not surprised. You were burnt alive in your armour," Said Lord Stark.

"Was I? Well that certainly explains why I looked like this. Now that you have grasped the obvious, can we please move on?"

Lord Stark nodded dejectedly.

"Sorry Father."

"Ah, be at ease boy. You should be celebrating. Everyone else is."

"Celebrating?" asked Lord Stark.

"Yes celebrating." he said impatiently. "You'd think the others would be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on." he jerked his head back at the Library towers. "Those bloody Raven. Monsters in the sea….Dragons in the sky…well the Maesters aren't completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Sea Serpents in the bay of seals, those over grown tuna, were told to behave."

"Father?" said Lord Stark gently. "What is it that we are supposed to be celebrating?"

"What we haven't been able to celebrate since before the Age of Heroes." said Rickard irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. Everyone is being downright careless, wandering about, getting seen, not even attempting to hide themselves, swapping rumours like ladies in waiting."

He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Lord Stark here, as though hoping he was going to tell him something, but he didn't, so he went on. "A marvellous thing it would have been if on the very day we were about to disappear, the Muggles hunt us down. End all of us in one foolish fell swoop."

"Disappear? What do you mean disappear?"

"Oh, hush boy. We have much to be thankful for. Thankful, that our line survived the cruelty of this chaotic world."

"But I don't understand! Muggles — Serpents — Our kind…. What does any of this mean?"

"My dear Ned, surely a sensible person like yourself can understand what is happening? Surely the quiet wolf, who, watches and learns, can see that his heritage is calling to him. Surely a: wizard." Lord Stark flinched, but Rickard, who was still smiling, seemed not to notice. "Surely you've figured out, that magic is slowly saying its final farewell."

"B-B-But father, you said never to speak of… you-know-what."

"Ba, that is in the past my son." Said Rickard, sounding half exasperated, half happy. "This whole situation is different. Magic no longer has a place in this world. Those Blasted Maesters of the Citadel have seen to that. As the last bloodline of Wizards we are moving on."

"Moving onto where and why?"

Rickard shrugged.

"You shall just, be moving on. You, your family and our ancestral home will soon leave the North, never to return. As to why there are a hundred rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why magic is finally leaving this world? About what has finally forced us out?"

It seemed that Rickard Stark had reached the point he was most anxious to discuss, the real reason he had come to his son from beyond the grave, for neither alive or dead had he fixed his son with such a piercing stare as he did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, he was about to tell Lord Stark the truth. Lord stark sat in preparation for the reason behind leaving.

"What is everyone saying? Father."

"What they're saying," he pressed on, "is that it just our time. There is no great enemy to run from or some horrible villain to fight. It is just time that you move on."

"But I can't go. I'm Warden of The North. I have a duty, I have responsibilities."

Rickard shook his head.

"And you shall have death. Our line will end. You will be killed by the Queen. Your wife and sons Robb, Jon shall be betrayed by friend. Bran will die north of the wall, alone. Rickon will kill himself in grief as will Sansa. And Arya, shall be so consumed by vengeance, she will become something worse than man." Said Rickard desperately, "this is the fate of our family should you stay."

Lord stark shook his head.

"No. No, it's a lie, they can't be, they— they—can't – Die."

"They will," said Richard glumly.

"Our line dead...my children dead… I can't believe it... I don't want to believe it...Father!"

Rickard reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Lord Stark's voice trembled as he went on. "What of my wife? She's not a Stark; she has no Stark blood in her. She – Won't come with us. She'll be left here, alone. She won't know how, or why, we left; she'll think it's her fought – and she'll go mad."

Rickard shook his head sternly.

"Catelyn shall go with you and your children. She may not have our blood, but she is bound to the house of Stark. Magic is not cruel. It does not wish to take mothers from babes."

Lord Stark smiled happily.

"Is it – it true?" whimpered Lord Stark, "That my children shall have their mother… she'll be with them…our family will be safe? This is all so strange… of all the thing to happen…where will we go, where shall we call our new home?"

"I can only guess," said Rickard. "But magic is strong there. It is practiced."

Lord Stark sighed. He looked back over the trees of the Gods Wood to the castle that held his family with in. Rickard gave a great groan as slowly stood up looking up examining the stars. The stars were rather odd.

The stars had a pinkish hug; with little droplets of blue that danced across the black velvet curtain of night. It must have made sense to Rickard, though, because he smiled and turned to Lord Stark and said, "The night is nearly over. The time has nearly come. Our time in Westeros is at an end?"

"Yes," Said Lord Stark, "I suppose it is. I suppose we will have to make this new place, we are to go to, our home?"

"You will my son. You will thrive there, as much of our kind has. There is the only safe haven for our family to survive now."

"But… What of my house-hold? The men and women who serve our house, who live here?" cried Lord Stark, jumping to his feet and pointing at the castle.

"They will be left without a home. Winter is coming. They won't survive the north without the protection of Winterfell. Would you leave them to the Bolton's? That family is evil. How can you ask me to go Father, to leave the First men? How can you, ask me that!"

"You cannot stay." Said Rickard firmly, "Pain and death are all that will follow, if you stay here. There is a chance, a chance for your children to live happy lives. I know it is hard, I know you were not taught, to run from confrontation. It is a fair sacrifice, though."

"Sacrifice?" Lord Stark repeated faintly, sitting back down on the tree branch. "Father, I have sacrificed so much for my family, haven't I? I have given my blood, my body, my honour for this family. Was it for nothing! Now I am to run—far away—like a coward who runs from battle at the first sign of blood—people will talk of the disappearance of Winterfell and our family—everyone in Westeros will know what we are, if we leave!"

"Exactly," said Rickard, looking very seriously through his badly burnt eyes. "They will know what you are, and they will kill you. That is why you must leave! Death awaits this family if you remain in this world, if you remain in Westeros! Can you not see how much better off you'll be, away from all the madness of the Game of Thrones?"

Lord Stark opened his mouth, changed his mind, swallowed, and then said, "I understand—yes, you're right, there is no other way. We have to leave, there is no other choice. When shall we leave?"

"At the last stretches of night."

"Are you sure—Father—sure, we are to leave tonight?"

"Perfectly," Said Rickard.

"Look I'm not saying that we won't be going," said Lord Stark grudgingly, "but you can't expect us to just leave this night. We have to get our affairs in – what was that?"

A whirling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked back to the castle that had started to glow with a faint blue aurora. It stretched form the highest towers, to the walls of the Gods Wood.

If Winterfell was the jewel of the north, now it was the greatest treasure ever seen. The glowing blue seemed to be alive; it covered the large curtain wall, the great keep, till the castle itself was complexly blue. The slow rising of this blue aurora soon spread and started to encompass the Heart Tree of the Gods Wood, though it seemed far slower than the rest of the castle.

"Don't worry, Ned," said Rickard, sounding relived, "soon you shall feel the spell on you flesh, and it shall soon be over."

Lord Stark looked to his feet.

"What is happening?"

"Be calm, my son," said Rickard as the blue Aurora flowed over his head, and he yawned loudly. "You will sleep, and awaken away from this troublesome world."

"But it is too soon. There is much that I need to do."

The blue aurora started to wrap itself around Lord Stark's feet; he stood up sharply, as the light started slowly crawling up his legs to his knees. He found that the blue light tickled him, as the blue light grew closer and closer, encompassing his body soon after, and finally covering his face. He started to panic.

"Be—calm, son. Give into the magic. Let it wash away this world, let it cleanse you of this chaotic place, let it embrace you. My son,—give into the journey, Ned— this must be done."

Rickard yawned again and slouched slightly his gaze slowly dropping away from Lord Stark.

"But how can I go—can't I say goodbye to my house-hold?" asked Lord Stark. He twisted and turned towards the castle, but felt very tired and only managed a few steps before he had to stop. Then, suddenly, let out a cry like a whimpering child.

"Shhh!" hissed Lord Rickard, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"B-b-but," sobbed Lord Stark, collapsing to his knees, and swaying from side to side exhausted, "I c-cant abandon my duty—leave them alone—to face unknown trials without my guidance."

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but like time, all things must slip away from us," Rickard whispered, slowly fading away into the blue aurora, as Lord Stark saw small white stars dance across his eyes and fell to the ground, face first. He laid there upon the ground, looking out to the Heart Tree had glowed the brightest blue, the wooden face of the Old Gods looking at him sadly, he felt his eyes lids whimper under a great strain, and finally close. For a full minute Lord Stark was sure he was still awake, only consumed in the blackness of his eyelids.

A breeze ruffled the neat beard of Lord Stark's face, as he lay silent and still under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect to find the Warden of the North. Eddard Stark slept on the ground, the cold mud brushing his face. He was as still as a statue and he slept on, not knowing where Winterfell would take his family, not knowing the adventure he would take part in, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Arya's scream as she shook him awake trying to find where all the servant had gone, nor that he would spend the next day meeting the most strange man he had ever seen…He couldn't know that at this very moment, all of magic was meeting in secrete, accepting the same similar blue aurora, and slowly disappeared, whispering in hushed voices: "goodbye Westeros—you shall never see our like again!"

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Authors brothers notes

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This was written by my brother, I would have preferred the title: Harry Potter and another Game of Thrones crossover, but hay can't have everything.


	2. Chapter 2: Beyond the Forrest

**This is a non-profit fan fiction**

 **Harry Potter and Game of Thrones are owned by J.K Rowling and George R. Martin**

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 **Chapter 2**

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 **Beyond the Forrest**

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Nearly an entire morning had passed since the Starks and Jon Snow had woken up to find the house-hold staff missing; the castle seemed empty without them. The sun beat down on the snow covered forest that now mysterious lay outside the wall of Winterfell; the light crept into the Great Hall, which was exactly the same as it had been the night before in Westeros. Only instead of the hundred people who rushed through chores, there were just the Starks and Jon Snow.

In Westeros there had been servant to provide breakfast, dress the children and make sure everyone was up— Lady Stark no longer had servants to order about, instead she had to find the children, get them dressed, and prepare breakfast while wondering where on earth everyone had disappeared to.

There was no sign of anyone else apart from the Starks and Jon Snow lived in the castle. It was completely deserted. Yet life continued, if at a slow pace, but not for long. Lady Stark had put a plate of bacon and bowl of porridge on the table, as the first noise of the day.

Jon reached for the plate.

"Not until your siblings have had there's!"

Jon retracted his hand slowly. His half siblings took the bacon, and put it on their plate.

"Where is everyone?" Arya asked again.

Lady Stark ignored the question, and walked to Lord Stark and sat down. She collected a portion of bacon for herself and Lord Stark, who looked sat at the table writing a list of items he would need, when he explored the woods that lay outside the castle. So far Lord Stark had decided: Sword, Rope, Shield, Gold, Robb, Bread, Water, and Jon. He tried to think of what else he might need, but nothing else came to mind.

Lady Stark coughed.

"My love, when will you be leaving?" she demanded.

"Soon," said Lord Stark.

"Is it wise to take Robb with you? To leave your wife and children undefended, I think it would be better if he stayed here."

Lord Stark groaned.

"It will be fine mother," said his son Robb, through a mouthful of bacon.

"Not it won't!" snapped Lady Stark, "all this— this magic—it's just—it's just so, so strange, so dangerous. I don't want you hurt!"

Arya looked at Jon who stared at the table sadly.

"It will be fine," comforted Lord Stark, "we will see how deep the forest is. We will not go far, only a few hours at most. Just so we can get some bearings."

Lady Stark and Sansa had not taken magic well – how could anyone forget the fainting? Robb slowly got up from the table and walked to Jon, who stood to join him, both brothers went to get there supply's. They found food in the kitchen, swords in the armoury and, after finding some warm cloths, put them on. Both brothers knew to dress warmly in the cold, because they had lived in the north, were winter lasted lifetimes, and summer only a few years.

When Robb and Jon were dressed they went down to the south gate. The gate was already locked, with a large beam put across it, Robb and Jon struggled to take it down before they pushed the gate open. Lord Stark joined them; it looked as though he had had a disagreement with one of their siblings, either that or porridge was excellent for hair care. Jon personal suspected Arya; she no doubt wanted to come with them and, after another shouting match would have been sent to her room. Exactly why anyone wanted to come with them was a mystery to Jon, as it would be very dangerous—which was why Robb wanted to come. Robb had Auburn hair, with broad shoulder and very brave unlike Jon, but he was a kind brother who was always there.

Perhaps it was because of Lady Stark's inheritable features that, Jon felt like an outcast, with his lean build, his father's brown hair and, eyes that were almost black. Arya and little Rickon were the only two he could relate too physically. He looked like a Stark, but he was a snow, why he had joined them in this new world was a mystery. He may have shared their blood, but he did not have their name, he was mistake born of lust in the heat of Roberts Rebellion, a Bastard. He had been a bastard all of his life, and the first question he could ever remember Bran asking was why Jon didn't have the Stark Surname.

"He's a bastard, at the time of his birth, your father was not married to his mother," Lady Stark had said, "now don't ask any more questions on the subject."

That was how Jon was seen—Lady Stark saw him as wanton and treacherous, born of lust and lies. He wanted to prove the whispers wrong, to show his lord father he could as good a true son as Robb.

Lord Stark walked through the gate as Robb and Jon followed.

"Come on boys. I'll take point. Robb watch the rear!" he barked, by way of a greeting.

They would have ridden, but there were no hoarse in the stables, so they started to walk into the forest. Lord Stark led the way, and Robb watched the rear. Robb had only been given live steel once before, when he was being measured for a sword a year ago for his eleventh name-day—that seemed so long ago.

Lord Stark was walking through the forest by the time the cold started seep into his boots. This land was not as cold as the north, but still cold. Snow covered the branches of the trees, not in great quantity, small, clumps of ice, and dashes of sleet covered the landscape. The Stark words were: 'Winter is Coming'—Lord Stark thought this land did not suffer winter like Westeros did.

After an hour of walking through the forest they stopped, which was difficult as Lord Stark had no idea where he was going. Jon meanwhile had been taking note of where they were going.

"I think we should follow the stream," he said pointing to a little stream that was rolling down hill, "it looks like a footpath over there."

"Jon, you're right. Robb, we'll wait here ten minutes. Catch our breath. Then move out. If that is a footpath, it must be travelled. We might meet someone."

"A fine plan," said Robb, nodding at his father's suggestion. Jon only hoped that ten minutes rest would be enough, the distance they had covered would have taken ten minutes by horse.

Lord Stark sat on a log, letting out a loud sigh, "Strange landscape this. Odd terrain, weird climate, the seasons don't seem as long here. Almost as though winter only lasts a few weeks, and not years — it is most strange."

Jon thought for a moment. He had not experienced many winters in Westeros. Finally he said, "Perhaps the magic here keeps the seasons warm all year round. Maybe there is no winter."

"That's a good thought Jon," said Robb.

"Maybe not winter as we know it. But there is a mild winter here." Lord Stark grabbed a handful of the nearest snow. "It seems like the dream of spring."

Robb chuckled.

"It all seems like a dream: magic, a new world, a curious land. It all seems so unreal!" He nodded gingerly.

Lord Stark took a sip of water from his container, handed it to Jon who took a swig, while they watched Robb unwrap a loaf of bread, and slowly consume half of it in a large bit. He was chewing through the rough crust when Jon handed him the water. They sat and laughed and father and sons could, till time caught up with them.

"We should move out." Lord Stark said, "We have dawdled here long enough." he jerked his head in the footpath' direction.

Robb and Jon nodded. They packed away their water and food, and made sure that it was secure. Every year in Westeros, Lord Stark took them to Karhold, the Dreadfort, and even White Harbour to meet the Northern Lords. Every year, before they returned to Winterfell they made sure everything was secure, in case they left anything important behind. Lord Stark hated the trips. He wasn't supposed to be the Warden of the North, that was Brandon's duty, how he hated to fill his deceased brothers shoes.

"Who do you suppose made this footpath?" Robb asked.

Jon shrugged.

"Whoever they are I hope we meet them soon." He grumbled, "My feet are killing me."

Lord Stark, looking furiously at Jon shook his head disapprovingly. Jon knew he shouldn't complain, as Bastards went he had a good life, he was acknowledged in the records, he had roof over his head and food in belly, which was more than could be said of Kings Robert's unknown children.

"Perhaps next time we should let you stay with the women," Robb joked.

"Don't be silly, Robb, Bran would never forgive me if something happened to you."

Lord Stark often heard the boys jibe each other like this, as though they real brother— or rather, as though they had forgotten the unfortunate circumstances of Jon's birth.

"Not as much as our sister— how could Arya not miss you?"

"Arya is kind. Perhaps to kind to me," sighed Jon.

"You will not speak of yourself in that tone," snapped Lord Stark.

"Yes father," apologised Jon (he'd always put himself down every day since Sansa had screamed Bastard at him when she was five and made him a permanent outcast).

Robb looked sad. He disliked the way everyone treated Jon, but he was not strong enough to go against the flow, of the entire north. He watched his brother climbed over several rocks following their father. In this land, Robb would try and be a better brother.

"I suppose whoever made this path must have built a settlement?" he asked, "or at the very least a camp of some sort."

"Most defiantly," said Lord Stark, as he looked down into a ravine that the stream flowed into.

"I suppose we'll have to go round," said Jon slowly, "… and maybe head back to the castle…"

"Not to the castle, were getting close…"

Lord Stark nodded to where the path continued. He wasn't really prepared to go back—not yet anyway— he knew they were getting close to some sort of settlement, he could see puffs of smoke about a mile away. They would walk a little further down the path; he hoped they found some sort of village soon.

"Well walk some more, don't worry, I'm sure the path will lead us to a settlement!" he commanded, striding down the path.

"I hope so!" Jon Groaned, "the sooner we learn where we are, the sooner we can purchase a hoarse to return to Winterfell." He shot Robb a smirking grin over his shoulder.

"Who said that we were going to purchase horses?" Rob joked.

Jon and Lord Stark laughed.

Half an hour later, Lord Stark, couldn't believe his luck, there in the valley below was a large village, with little thatched cottages and shops that were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there was even holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees. It looked so peaceful and pleasant; he almost knew it was safe.

Robb follower Jon and his father down the footpath, to the new village for the first time in his life. His father and brother seem wary of everything around them as the forest started to thin, but before they'd arrived, Lord Stark had taken both boys aside.

"We don't know there customs or intentions," he had said, giving his sternest impression of Lady Stark, "Be careful—we are strangers here, anything happens return to the castle—do I make myself crystal clear."

"Yes father," said Jon.

"Yes father," said Robb.

But Lord Stark didn't believe them. The young often made foolish mistakes.

The problem was that both Robb and Jon believed they had to prove themselves in some great glorious act.

Once, Robb, tired of being told he wasn't allowed to hunt as he was only a boy of six, had taken a spear and marched out of the Hunters gate with all the speed he could muster to try and catch a deer, which he would kill in honour of his father. Lady Stark had screamed herself horse at Lord Stark, who proceeded to search for his missing son for about three hours. In that time, however, Robb had gotten lost in the forest and was nearly charged down by boar. When he was found, Lord Stark gave his son a week of cleaning armour for this, even though Robb had tried to explain that he wanted to bring honour to his name and family.

Another time, Jon had been trying to prove his worth by attempting to ride his hoarse over a large hedge. The harder he tried to make the jump, the worse his injuries seemed to become, until finally he had to be taken to Maester Luwin for a broken wrist, sprained ankle, and nasty bruise on his back. Lord Stark had decided not to punish Jon; the poor boy already looked like hell from his accident.

On the other hand, both boys had gotten into terrible trouble for being found in the kitchens one night consuming mead. Theon Greyjoy had been boasting as usual when, as to both their surprise, they started consuming the liquid. Lord and Lady Stark had very angrily at hearing the news from the cook and servants. But all they'd tried to do (as they had shouted through there locked doors of their rooms) was be real men like Lord Stark and the king. Both boys had regretted it the next-day when the hangover struck them.

But today, nothing young and foolish was going to happen. This was an unknown land and village that they were about to enter. There could be no glory seeking here.

While they walked, Robb complained to the open air. He liked to complain about thing since their arrival in this land: Magic, Lady Stark, the state of his boots, the long walk, and the weather were just a few of his favourite subjects. Right now, it was the hill.

"…abrupt, un-trekable," he said, as the path got steeper.

"It's not that bad," said Jon, using a tree to make the next step of the path. "I mean we could have had to scale that ravine."

Robb tripped over a loose tree root and went tumbling down the hill, till he nearly crashed into another tree. He climbed off the floor and turned right around and yelled at Jon, his face like an angry wolf with auburn hair: "NOT BAD MY ASS!"

Lord Stark and Jon sniggered.

"I suppose that is one way of getting down the hill fast," said Lord Stark. "Not very safe though."

He ran down the hill to Robb and helped him up. If there was one thing Lord Stark hated even more than the current situation they were in, I was his inability to protect his children, no matter if it was outside his power—he hated that his children would be in danger.

It was very sunny when Lord Stark, Robb and Jon entered the village. It all seemed so strange to them, these small dwelling had glass for windows which was unheard of Westeros, everyone they passed wore fine clothing as if they were all Lords, and strangest of all where the names of the shops: Honey Dukes, Zonko's Joke Shop, and Hogsmeade Post Office. It was unlike anything he had ever expected, Lord stark thought, as he peered into Gladrags Wizardwear who appeared to sell rather colourful garments.

Jon had the most wonderful day he'd had in a long time. He walked a little way apart from his family so that Lord Stark and Robb, who kept getting distracted by odd items that were displayed behind the glass, wouldn't insult anyone by having a bastard in their presence. Though no one seemed insult by him being there, perhaps that would change when they learned the truth of his birth.

Robb was probably the most excited and confused he had ever been. Everything in this village seemed to be extraordinary, which made a change from the dull boring villages of Westeros. Here, life was easy and celebrated with joy and smiling people at every turn, he had to remind himself twice not to wander away from Lord Stark and be at ease in such a pleasant place.

They walked round the village several times, and when finally they were sure that this village meant them no harm, Lord Stark nodded to a large Tavern called The Three Broomsticks Inn.

Lord Stark felt, afterwards, that he should have known the village held magic.

They entered The Three Broomsticks sometime towards the end of the day. It was warm and crowded in there, with little clasps of smoke hanging in the air. Behind the bar, all sorts of strange beverages sat such as: Butterbeer, Gillywater, mulled mead and Firewhiskey which were reflected in a mirror that sat behind them. Robb and Jon wanted to try a glass of the strange liquids. Lord Stark quickly found a table with three seats and sat down. Robb and Jon joined him. It could be called a grand pub like the Inn of the kneeing man—but at this moment it looked rather quiet. In fact, it was most peaceful.

Robb stretched his legs out underneath the table; the clicking of his joints attracted the attention of Jon and Lord Stark.

"Can we have a drink," he whined to father. Lord Stark nodded and proceeded to the bar, where he was met by a curvy sort of woman with a pretty face.

"What can I get you sir?" the Tavern Wench asked.

"We are new in these parts. I have not tried you beer before. What do you suggest?" asked Lord Stark.

"So you're from out of town. We'll my hospitality is yours. For your sons I say Butterbeer, not allowed to sell Firewhiskey to them till they come of age. I'm Madam Rosmerta."

"Lord Eddard Stark, my sons: Jon and Robb."

Madam Rosmerta right eyebrow shot up.

"A lord? Don't get many Lords in our world, not since: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"I'm from a different land. Now, could I have Two Butterbeer's and that," said Lord Stark, pointing to a bottle called mulled mead.

Madam Rosmerta shuffled away. She poured two Butterbeer's and a flagon of mulled mead, placing them down on the bar and outstretched her hand for payment.

"That's One Gallon, Three Sickles, and Eleven Knuts."

Lord Stark had never heard of any type of money like that. He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and put two large golden Dragons on the table, hoping it was enough. Madam Rosmerta picked the coins up and looked at them; she gave a bewildered look to Lord Stark, who collected the drinks.

"Rosmerta!" said a booming voice, "How yeh bin?"

The customer was bigger than the Mountain. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms squeezing through the door.

"Hagrid!" Rosemerta smiled at the Giant, "the usual."

Lord Stark hurried back to his sons hoping she would ask no more questions, as the Giant seemed to have captured her attention.

Rob shuffled about in his chair and looked at the pewter mug of ale. He wouldn't have been surprised if it was delicious—a smoking liquid with no discernible ingredients except butter and possibly baily. It was going to taste fantastic, that he was sure of. The metal mug was hot and enticing as he brought to his lips to take a sip. He had been wrong it was not just delicious, it was life changing.

After a long Gulp, Jon and Robb placed the Butterbeer on the table. The table suddenly shook. Slowly, very slowly, its left leg broke and crashed to the ground.

Then it stopped.

Lord Stark and Jon stared. They looked quickly around to see if anyone was doing this. They weren't. They looked back to the floating table, confused.

The table suddenly righted itself and the table legs jerked out to the side. Then slowly it raised itself back into place. Lord Stark gave a looked that simply said:

"What in the name of the old gods and new just happened?"

"I don't know," Jon murmured through a bewildered look, though he wasn't whether it was magic. "It is so strange."

Lord Stark nodded vigorously.

"I did it." Robb squeaked.

Jon twisted to stare at his brother. Lord Stark peered at Robb.

"What do you mean son?"

"Bes' bit of accidental magic I seen in a while," Hagrid laughed. "You wait; your son'll be right good at Hogwarts."

Lord Stark stared at the giant confused. He had no idea what had happened and why his son thought he had caused it. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you are talking about."

As Hagrid gave a scared look, a quiet voice whispered from behind the giant that made both of them jump. "Hagrid, would you please allow me to pass."

Many people in the tavern started to whisper. Hagrid waddled out of the way as fast as he could.

The man who stood behind Hagrid was Albus Dumbledore. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

"I must say I now most of the residence of Hogsmead." Dumbledore whispered, "But I do not believe we have met."

Lord Stark stood up sharply.

"We have not," he said, bowing his head slightly. Caught by surprise, Lord Stark attempted to show respect to the old man. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened— one second, there were three chairs around the table, the next a forth had appeared, shooting out of a stick that Dumbledore had, to the howls of horror from his sons.

Lord Stark sat down shocked and gasped. Dumbledore pulled the chair out and sat down calmly, not even bothering to stare at their astonished faces. People around them whispered words like Muggles, Ward, and broken spell.

As Dumbledore nodded to Hagrid to move on, Robb looked at the table, afraid to look up and be condemned to the fires as was common practice in Westeros.

Lord Stark was in shock.

"But how," he kept mumbling, "no one can do that in Westeros."

Dumbledore turned to Jon, who like his brother looked down at the table. Lord Stark eventually pulled himself together enough to string a sentence together:

"Who are you?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Albus Dumbledore. Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Cheif Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, of the International Confederation of Wizards," He said. "And you and I, Lord Stark—have much to discuss."

* * *

 **Authors brothers notes**

* * *

 **Well my brother has asked me to update his fan fiction again and he is grateful to many of you for your generous comments, but would ask those who feel the setting is wrong to describe as to why they have an issue rather then simply saying "because I don't like it", it helps him get constructive criticism and improve his work.**

 **Well enjoy a "Harry Potter and the slightly original Game of Thrones Crossover"**

 **Have a lovely read.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

 **The Library**

* * *

The new world outside the gates of Winterfell earned Arya her longest-ever punishment. She wanted to go out into the forest and explore, not sit inside with Sansa and Bran trying to entertain Rickon, while their mother attempted to cook.

The day had started with the disappearance of the servants, and Lord Stark's explanation of magic. Arya had been very interested in her father words—until they were interrupted by her mother screaming. It didn't help the situation when Robb and Jon left with Lord Stark to search the forest for a local settlement. It was all so unfair, she thought, Jon and Robb got to go outside, why couldn't she?

Bran glanced up from the table he had been staring at, his eyes darted towards his eldest sister Sansa. Sansa had been really mean since they came to this new land, she didn't think magic was respectable or exciting. She had already correct Arya's sitting, scolded Bran for trying to climb the rafter and nearly screamed at Rickon when their baby brother burped loudly after a glass of water.

This was why Bran looked at the table. He was slightly glad that his mother had vanished to the kitchen to practice cooking. His mother bacon was very burnt— not like Gage's cooking, he could make it tender like lamb. Maester Luwin, Old Nan, and Hodor were all gone, properly standing in the cold or making their way to Wintertown, wondering where the castle had disappeared to, where the Starks had gone. The Household staff had no idea that Bran and his family had been magical whisked away to a new land.

This was why Bran was desperate to go to the library; he wanted to read up on magic and learn about all its wonders, where he could see adventure awaiting to happen. When he got the chance he would head to the library and, for the first time in his life, he would be disobeying Lady Stark. Lady Stark had given stern instruction not to leave the hall, under any circumstances. Arya was planning to escape too. Sansa, on the other hand, had no desire to leave the hall, nor did Rickon— who would be there distraction.

"Right you know the plan," Arya asked Rickon, who nodded his head excitedly, "don't let Sansa catch you until we are out of the hall, okay."

"Ye'th," Rickon squeaked with a lisp.

"Go," Bran whispered. "Give her hell Rick." Then they ran, before Rickon could change his mind and decided he wanted to come with them.

As they left they heard a crash, Rickon had distracted Sansa alright by tipping over one of tables onto the floor, leaving there sister shouting angrily. Sansa was in a bad mood. She had had to dress herself, serve her brothers and clean the pots and pans with Lady Stark. She was now left to look after her younger sibling and keep them in like, which they refused to do.

In a different part of the castle, Bran and Arya ran around the corridors in a desperate attempt to reach the library and see what books Maester Luwin had had on magic. The library tower was a smelly, old, and rather dirty place that had very little light. It was also filled to the brim with big books and bits of scattered parchments that both Bran and Ayra could not pronounce. This was supposed to be where knowledge was kept.

As she looked at a pile of books, Bran muttered something about organisation and looking for the letter M. Arya just shook her head and pulled the nearest book to her and opened it. After the first three words she realised it was not about magic, rather how to grow turnips. She thought she might fall asleep if she read anymore.

There was a horrible smell from one of the moldy old books when Bran picked it up. It seemed to be coming from a half-eaten pie. He went to have a look. The apple pie appeared to have been started but not by Maester Luwin who had had several books out on a desk.

"What's this?" he asked. As he pushed the rotten pie out of the way and looked at the open books.

"Did you find something?" she asked.

Bran looked at the book again.

"Maybe," he said, "it's what Maester Luwin was looking at before the castle moved."

"Oh, what was he reading?" asked Arya. "I bet it was something magical. It has to be. Maester Luwin was a sharp cookie; he had to have known that magic was real."

Arya skipped over, she thought if there was an explanation Maester Luwin would have one. Bran sat down at the table and tried to make sense of the long and curling words that was on the parchment—it all made very little sense to him— Arya thought it was all very boring.

Bran muttered unfamiliar words beneath his breath, while Arya coaxed him through the complicated words she knew. Arya opened another book on the desk and Bran closed the book, not finding anything helpful in it.

They heard a rustle of pages and a thud and something heavily fell to the ground.

"What was that?" asked Arya from behind her book.

"I'm not sure."

"Go find out Bran."

"Why do I have to go find out Arya?"

"Because I said so, now go."

"That's not a valid reason."

SMACK! Arya's hand flew into the air and hit Bran on the back of the head.

Caught by surprise, Bran fell hard on the stone floor.

Or rather he should have fallen. He caught himself in time and hovered about a foot off of the ground. He sat there in mid-air for a moment looking very confused, he glanced at Arya who pushed him gently and he glided across the air like a feather. Then it stopped.

CRASH!

Whatever Bran had done not to fall had run its course. He hit the ground hard with a loud thud and groaned in pain. He was unsure what had happened—in-fact he was very confused about the whole affair. After a moment of struggling, in which both siblings tried to come up with plausible answers, Bran straightened up, gasping for breath, with a perplexed look on his face.

"What was that Arya?"

Arya shook her head.

"I don't know Bran," she whispered. "It was very strange though."

Bran nodded.

SMACK! Arya's hand once again flew into the air and hit Bran on the back of the head. She nodded to where the rustle had come from.

"Alright I'm going," he groaned. "Just don't hit me again."

Bran went to see what had rustled. He found what appeared to be a fallen book; it was big and old with yellow pages. He didn't think it was very important that was until he saw where it had fallen from—a large bookcase that seemed to conceal something behind it.

Bran put the book down and stared at the bookcase, his heart felt like it had been struck by lightning. He had never noticed it before, not even from his lesson with Maester Luwin. It didn't look important— it didn't even hold that many books. Yet, he could clearly see that it was hiding something behind it.

He reached up slowly and pushed the bookcase, it moved very easily as it had concealed wheels at the bottom and his mouth dropped. Behind the bookcase was a mystery, it contained large books written in green ink, odd bottle of strange liquids, a grubby broomstick, and a small golden ball that had a pair of broke wings by it. It was very strange, Bran thought, why had Maester Luwin hidden all this junk.

"What did you find?" shouted Arya from the desk. "Are you planning on reading the whole library, to see if there is reference to magic?" She chuckled at her own joke.

Bran went back to his sister, his mouth still open. He wondered passed her, sat down, and slowly thought about all the strange things he had seen.

Arya looked at Bran who looked like a cod fish; she shrugged and walked to the bookcase to see what had shocked him so much.

"Bloody hell!" she shouted, picking up the battered looking broom. "What do you suppose all this stuff is then?"

"Whatever it is you are not touching it!" said Lady Stark suddenly. "Now put it down this instant and come here."

Bran and Arya looked round to see their mother standing in the doorway. Lady Stark's face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge when she saw what they had found.

Arya had been looking at the broomstick in her hand, when it was jerked sharply out of her hand by Lady Stark.

"That's mine!" said Arya, trying to snatch it back.

"No it is not," sneered Lady Stark, inspecting the broom for anything dangerous.

"It's just a broom mother," Bran protested.

Arya tried to grab the broom back, but Lady Stark held it high out of her reach. Lady Stark pointed to the door, and ordered her children out. With reluctant shuffles Bran and Arya left grumbling as they were frog marched back to Sansa and Rickon who sat in the Great hall.

Sansa stared at them as Arya tried to grab a hold of the broom their mother had in her hands. Rickon looked at his feet, he was sorry he hadn't been able to keep Sansa interested in him for more than a minute, before she realised they were gone and went running to mother.

"I want my broom back," Arya said loudly.

"Cant she have it Mother," said Bran furiously, "she did find it in that hidey-hole."

"Sit down, both of you," croaked Lady Stark, putting the broom down on the table.

Bran sat down dejectedly. Arya didn't move.

"I WANT MY BRROMSTICK!" she shouted.

"What broomthick?" asked Rickon.

"I won't give it up!" yelled Arya, glaring at Lady Stark.

"ENOUGH!" roared Lady Stark, and Arya backed away in fear and sat next to Bran, there mother growling at them like a she-wolf. Sansa and Rickon sat shocked their mouths open in amazement, as the broom that Arya so desperately claimed was hers, jumped from the table and started to float— it just hovered, about a foot in the air waving back and forth in the mild draft that flowed through the great hall.

"Mother," Sansa said in a quivering voice, "look at the broom— how is it doing that? Do you think its Magic?"

"Magic—illusions—Higher Mysteries," mutter Lady Stark wildly.

"But what should we do, mother?" Sansa panicked, "Should we tell it to stop floating? Tell it to be a normal—"

Bran could see Lady Stark's mind working; she looked like she was helping Maester Luwin with the taxes for the crown again. Her nose was all scrunched up, her mind hammering away at ideas like a blacksmith.

"No," she said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If the broom isn't there it can't be floating... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything..."

Bran looked at Arya confused.

"But mother—"

"There is no such thing as magic, Brandon! I refuse to acknowledge your fathers excuse as to where the household-staff has disappeared to. I will not listen to this childish nonsense! Do I make myself clear?"

That was the end of that. Lady Stark stomped back to the kitchen angrily, her husband had whispered about magic and the ghost of his father, ha. She couldn't see how any of it was true; magic was a thing of the past, long forgotten. She sighed and turned the corner to the kitchen—how could magic possibly be real.

Even if it was true, why would the Starks leave? The whole North would be lost without the Starks, without their guidance, without their wisdom, without their honour. The old saying in the north wrung in her ears: 'There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.'

But Winterfell was no longer in Westeros; it was now in some strange land by some unknown power. Magic was just the excuse that her Husband used. Magic didn't exist, Lady Stark thought, it's impossible.

Bran and Arya tried to ignore the floating broomstick; it was very difficult though, their eyes wondered to it several times with Sansa screeching at them to stop it. It took about ten minutes until the broom had decided it had had enough of floating and fell back onto the table.

But the flying did not stop there. Rickon had been sitting on the floor and glanced up at the Broom once or twice, but he got a glare from Sansa that made him look back to the floor. Magic seemed wonderful, he thought, he didn't understand why his mother and Sansa had such a problem with it. It seemed fantastic.

He tried not to look in the direction of the broom, but it was hard—instead he played with a wooden knight charging him against another who he knocked to the ground with a swipe of his hand. He clapped merrily as he set the knight up again for another charge. He did this over and over again and occasionally knocked the knights over with his wooden sword, crashing them to the ground.

It was when he struck the knight that it sailed into the air and slid across the floor and disappeared under one of the tables. He looked at the ground dejectedly. He hated when that happen, he loved that toy—he wanted it back, NOW!

Fweeeeeeeeeet!

A whistle sounded and Rickon looked up. The knight shot out from beneath the table and skidded across the floor, landing at his feet. He clapped happily, picked the knight up and began playing with it again.

A dull silence sat in the great hall, Rickon had curled up on one of the benches and gone to sleep, Sansa was sowing another wolf, and Bran and Arya slowly edged closer to the broomstick on the table. It was the moment that Arya had grabbed a hold of the broomstick that Sansa noticed them.

"What are you doing?" Said Sansa, the moment Arya had picked the broomstick up. "Mother told you not touch it. It might be dangerous!"

"It's not. It's just a broomstick, what's it going to do?" said Bran shortly. "Sweep us to death."

"Yeah, it's just a broomstick," said Arya angrily. "It can hardly be dangerous."

"SHUT UP!" yelled Sansa, her face turning slightly purple. She took a few deep breaths and then forced her face into a smile, which looked quite painful. "Um— siblings— put the broom down. Mother told us not to play with it…you're going to get in trouble again… I think we should all just sit down and wait for father and Robb to return."

"What'th about Yon." Rickon asked.

Sansa sneered at Rickon who did not look away. Jon was nice to Rickon, and always offered to play with him, unlike Sansa who was off with the children of the forest imaging marrying some noble lord, or the future king. Rickon sniggered, that was never going to happen now.

"No!" growled Arya.

"You will let go of the broom!" Snapped Sansa, she grabbed hold of the broom and tried to pull it out of Arya's grip. But her sister held onto it tightly, and was nearly pulled off the ground.

"I won't let go!" screamed Arya.

Sansa pulled hard on the broomstick and twisted it to try and force her sister off. Arya refused to let go, her grip was as tight as a giants –the broom was her, she thought, she had found it, well Bran had found it, but she had claimed it. This magic broom was hers.

Bran sighed and stretched out on the bench. It always entertained him when he watched his sisters fight like this. Today though, he'd wish that they never fought again.

BANG!

The next moment there a flash of blue dust and everyone went quiet. Bran was in shock. He screamed, lost his balance and fallen off the bench hitting the ground, and woken Rickon up who started to cry. Sansa wondered what had scared Bran so much, but to her surprise that was not shocked her—rather that Arya had let go of the broom and started to back away from her terrified.

When Arya was a good distance away, Sansa, who seemed to be trying to be in-charge, put the broom back down on the table. They heard the wood hit wood as she retook her seat and picked Rickon up soothing his tears. Then she said, "Now let us all remain quiet."

Bran looked to Arya who backed away scared.

"I-I d-didn't m-m-mean to do i-it," stuttered Arya.

Sansa smirked.

"What'th happened to your 'air?" asked Rickon.

With a strangled cry, Sansa leapt from her seat and ran her hands through blue hair, bright blue sparkling hair. She stood stunned for a moment, swayed slightly and passed out onto the floor with a thud. After a minute of confused silence, in which everyone had their mouth locked open, Bran straightened Sansa up and made a makeshift fan from her sowing.

"Arry, what did you do to San?" asked Rickon.

"She turned Sansa's hair blue Rick," Bran gasped.

"I'th she going to be alright?"

"Yes Rickon," Bran said, waving Sansa's sowing to cool her down, "she just fainted though I think she'll scream when she sees her hair again."

Rickon nodded.

Arya stood petrified to the spot. Somehow she had changed her sister's hair from auburn to bright blue. She hadn't meant to, all she'd try to do was get her magic broom back. Arya supposed that she had gotten angry and made a spell of some sort— though she didn't know how to reverse it. Surely that had to be magic? And if that was magic, then what Lord Stark had said was true.

The great hall remained very silent for the next hour as Sansa's blue hair slowly receded back to its original auburn colour. Bran sat in silence and looked at the floor. He wasn't sure what Arya did but it must have been magic, hair didn't chance colour on its own, nor had he seen a blue quiet like it. Arya's heart hammered as she paced back and forth across the hall, deep in thought over the whole affair, she wished there was someone to talk to.

But Arya had no one, no one except Jon. She knew her sister Sansa and her mother hated how she acted, riding, shooting arrows, being dirty, and nobody liked to disagree with Sansa or the matriarch of the Stark family.

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Authors brothers notes

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Well here is another chapter by my brother, I am glad to see many of you are enjoying the fanfiction, if you see any way you feel my brother could improve his work it will be a big help to him.

Thank you for reading, have a pleasant day


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